Closed-angle glaucoma vs. Presbyterian sunlight

December 12, 2011

The afternoon is happening. It’s calmer and darker. The images I can squeeze out of my eyes tell me that they’re telling the future. I’ll be grimacing whiskey in the woodshed tonight with fellow men. These eyes will rot blue, like mushroom stems. The tunnel vision floats down like a blanket from the sky.

Joie de vivre. Mojo. Swag. Bangarang. Commodity. Equity. Perpetuity. I ran around and shoved sticks into wounded trees for the sap. I should drink sap and remember that it’s bitter. I should sit in the grass and stare at a birch tree held together by duct tape, outside a Presbyterian church in Somerset, New Jersey. Then, the tree will grant me an opening in the crocheted garment of time and space in exchange for my soul’s realization of the tree’s nature, and I go back to nursery school and kick the shit out of Natolly for ever doubting I could kick the shit out of him. Slap his plastic water cup over because he dipped saltines in water. Then, I will stand angelic with my eyes closed and graduate alone, because I have a flight to catch. I’d never wash out the old wood that sublimated into my hair on my first graduation day in the drinkable Presbyterian light.

My will is not a hard glass sword, with which I deliver pleasure and pain to the mangy world around me. It is lilting music, unrecordable and uncapturable, and quiet like needles on a pine. This is a source of anger. According to neoclassical economics, this impotent lilting music should be crystallized by fiery anger, and I transform myself. The curve shifts to adapt. But the majority of life does not adapt. The biggest personality trait of life on earth is a lust for one’s own death. And unfortunate it is that any instruction manual those old men wrote attempts to lead one from words to actions to experience, with just words.


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